


Before and After

by farevenasdecidedtouse



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst, Gap Filler, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/pseuds/farevenasdecidedtouse
Summary: Memories surface as Gorion's Ward returns to Candlekeep to restore its former glory.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Proem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blueinkedfrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueinkedfrost/gifts).



_The Solar returned them to just outside Amkethran. Gwydion had taken a room at the Zephir_ — _"just until I decide what to do next," he said with a smile and the dip of dark curls over his face deemed so charming by those around him. One by one, his companions bade him farewell with varying affection and intensity of promise to write, stepping away into the dry, red dust with the slowly-returning trade_ _caravan_ _or simply alone, to leave Gwydion standing in the shadow of the monastery once occupied by his half-brother. The locals avoided it, casting occasional wary glances toward the high doors but allowing the honor of finding whatever still lay within until the shadow of Bhaal and the threat of ancient wards gave way to desperation, greed or bravado. Imoen occasionally alluded to seeing "what that weirdo was up to in there" but seemed as unwilling or unable to re-embark on any adventure as Gwydion found himself._

_For the most part, the townsfolk left them alone. Their former band had dwindled to himself, Imoen, (who, upon his observation that she could do what she would, including leaving, had threatened to tie their bootlaces together if he implied such a thing again) and Viconia, who would surely rather have been anywhere else but whose lack of temple or immediate superiors left her as abandoned as she assured him was surely apropos for a Sharian. He spent his days wandering the desert, letting the dry winds carry him as easily as the sand beneath his feet, desperate for activity but unable to imagine doing anything more purposeful, even clearing away the bodies of the Tethyrian army which still lay poisoning the oasis and its ground. His nights were pure oblivion—no dreams, good or ill, had come to him since the Solar's removal of his divine spark, casting his days into the light of a waking dream in the shadow of the past three years' stark reality.  
_

_One day in Kythorn, the afternoon air was slowly cooling into evening, the townsfolk turning out of their houses to resume the work and pastimes they had abandoned in the heat of midday. Gwydion had cloistered himself at a table in the darkest, coolest corner of the Zephir with a game of patience for the duration. He was considering whether rising to ask the innkeeper for a bowl of mutton and lily roots would be more trouble than it was worth when he felt a tap on his shoulder. With startlement born of three years of assassins, ambushes, and Imoen's practical jokes, he whirled around only to blink at the sight of the young, white-robed human before him, the silver scroll of Oghma hung about his neck and a roll of parchment stamped with the same in his hand._

_"You are Gwydion of Candlekeep, priest of Oghma and surviving son of Bhaal, late Lord of Murder?" asked the messenger, apparently a loremaster of Gwydion's own rank, quietly enough to make a few other tavern patrons lean closer. Gwydion's eyebrows rose, but he nodded. He accepted the scroll from the youth, opening it to reveal, in a scholar's clear, fluid hand:_

> To Loremaster Gwydion of Candlekeep, ward of the late sage Gorion, greetings:
> 
> At the bidding of Lord Oghma the Wise God, Patron of Bards, Lord of Knowledge and the Binder of What Is Known, a summons from the Grand Patriarch of the True Oghman Church of Procampur is effected: that upon receipt of this letter the Loremaster return to the fortress of Candlekeep to cleanse it of the corruption brought thereto by the Amnian Knights of the Shield and by the late Bhaalspawn Sarevok Anchev, that it may once again serve as a bastion of knowledge throughout the Realms and a holy seat of the Wise God.

_Gwydion glanced up incredulously toward the messenger, whose blank, innocent look sent Gwydion back to the page before him. The letter trailed on for several more paragraphs, the usual platitudes and formalities amounting to one thing: the order was something between a gift and a test, something to prove his loyalties to the god of his devotion, not his blood, once and for all. Yes, his companions could accompany him, provided none of them served gods opposed to Lord Oghma. Yes, tithes and resources of the True Oghman Church would be available. Yes, the Patriarch was quite sure. Avatars had been involved._

_Hands too well-schooled in spellcasting and writing to shake but still unsteady, Gwydion set the scroll down on the table, unsure of what to say to the other priest._

“ _Welp.” Imoen, who had been pretending not to read over his shoulder, sat down next to him. Her smile could have meant anything. “Guess we finally have something to do again.”_


	2. I: Phyldia

The leaves were all falling, so it must have been nearly Marpenoth. Phyldia knew she would need her cloak today, but it was gone from its peg in the inn and Winthrop had shaken his head when asked if he had seen it. _Perhaps it's in your room, Mistress Phyldia?_ he'd said, and she'd agreed that would make more sense even if she had remembered having it last at the inn. The inn was so much cozier than the library, but as a technical member of the Candlekeep order it was important that she sleep in the library. She rarely remembered why, but she didn't have her own room at the inn. And it was nice to look out on the gardens when all the flowers were blooming, or the leaves were turning everything into drifts of fire like they were now. It was cold enough, but a walk across the courtyard to the library would hardly harm her—the gods only knew she had made that walk without a cloak enough times by now. Or she most likely had, whenever she forgot her cloak. It was only a few steps after all

The afternoon light through the great library windows was cozy as ever as Phyldia made her way through the great doors, then up the first flight of stairs at the center of the building. A few people she couldn’t remember having met stood about with the ordinary monks, some of whom nodded at her passage, some of whom murmured. The stares and pity weren’t new: _Poor Phyldia. So much power made so little by such hubris. Women shouldn’t practice such things. Humans shouldn’t practice such things._ No word about the others kept out of sight or sent away, not important enough to claim forgotten wisdom from a suddenly remembered word of power, one of the grimoires she had kept in the bad handwriting and diagrams and marginalia that only the writer could ever truly understand. It was always Phyldia who was held up as the object-lesson for the younger monks, Phyldia made the example of not stretching for knowledge beyond what the Lord of Knowledge might allow one's capacity for. She was never bitter—to be bitter was to become like Ulraunt, old and angry and no longer open to learning anything despite all the knowledge he had gained in such a long life. Even if she was learning the same things about those around her over and over, that was the last thing Phyldia wanted for herself.

She was missing something. Gwydion would know where it was—but of course Gwydion had left a long time ago, he and little Imoen who seemed to be older every time Phyldia turned around. The leaves had all been new then—it must have been Myrtul, or around then. Just like when Gwydion was ordained, so long ago. Phyldia didn’t remember much, but she remembered the books she read, the oldest monks, and the happiness on Gwydion's face as he received the ceremonial longsword with a face so full of joy and pride. That had been earlier this year. Or perhaps the year before. Hadn't it? It seemed like just yesterday that he had returned that book to her in the middle of a forgetful spell just like this one, the book she had set down on a haystack to talk to Dreppin and then forgotten about. He would know what she had lost—but of course he wasn’t here.

But if he wasn’t here, why was his door ajar? Her room was the fourth on the top floor—she had counted her way along for years. Then Gorion’s, then Gwydion’s. Phyldia paused on the landing, then shook her head. Perhaps he’d forgotten to close it when he left on the adventure he had gone on. It must have been Gorion, looking for something of his… but no, Gorion had gone with him. Then perhaps it was a novice cleaning the empty rooms. Maybe they would know what she had forgotten? She brushed past a green-robed master but whatever he had said to her flew out of her head as she saw the other master kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed. It could have been Gwydion, looking through his things—but no, Gwydion wore the purple Oghman robes, not green, and he had the dark curls and big eyes that made people ask him where he came from. And he always knew where everything was—he wouldn’t be scattering blankets and books and old shoes across the floor like he was searching for something of his.

“What are you doing?” Phyldia asked, bemused. She took a step forward, about to ask more, but heard only a gurgle, then feel the pain and the hot splash of blood over her robes. With a lurch she tried for the door, but the other monk was holding her in place, letting her struggle out her last against him as in front of her the other brother’s face passed through old-leather grey and pale into a mocking mirror of her own—the last sight a mirror, everything wrong and backward and nowhere to go but into the darkness behind the silver backing. Into nothing.


	3. II: Winthrop

The sky was the color of pewter, wind shuffling the leaves around as listlessly as Imoen with a broom, as Winthrop pulled on his cloak and stepped out toward the henhouse. A couple of monks ambled past, revealing Phyldia standing in front of the wall they had passed as if she had forgotten what she was doing. Probably she had, Winthrop reasoned. “Now, Mistress Phyldia, where on earth or aether is your coat?” he asked, touching her on the elbow.

The blankness on her face remained as she turned to face him, then became a vague smile even by Phyldia’s standards. “You’re right, of course. A cold day to be out like this.”

“Day my eye! It’s nearly supper, which surely you remember you ought to be helping me with instead of standing about,” Winthrop said with a sufficiently mock-stern look for even Phyldia to know his intent. Any other ordained monk, even the kindest ones, would most likely have taken exception to him drafting them for cook duty, but Phyldia had always seemed to enjoy it and didn't do a half-bad job if you kept a close eye on her. Not like the novice monks who grumbled about the menial tasks unbefitting of great scholars, forgetting that even great scholars had to eat, and what better way to maintain a wizard's energy than to prepare the things they most liked?

“Supper. Yes.” Phyldia looked about before catching sight of Dreppin’s prize layer just inside the henhouse door. “Eggs!”

Winthrop couldn’t help but chuckle at the triumph on her face. “Come on, then,” he said, pushing open the door with his foot to reach for the first nest. Phyldia followed him, smiling vaguely as she gathered eggs into the pouch at her waist, probably crushing no end of whatever magely things she had gathered there before.

The fire was cracking happily in the inn kitchen when the two of them entered, the water he had placed over it boiling hard. Winthrop instructed Phyldia to boil the eggs as he mixed and rolled the pie crush, draping it into the deep clayware pie dish with his usual mix of garlic, onions, sausage bits, and finally the chopped boiled eggs, seasoned liberally with mace, nutmeg, and pepper. Conversation was easy as it baked—the dismal Eleint weather, the new parties of guests, what Gwydion and Imoen might be doing just at that moment, with Phyldia contributing what she might and allowing Winthrop to fill the gaps around her memories of such things like custard around berries in a tart. Truly, Winthrop enjoyed the company—the kitchen had been a lonely place without Gorion's brood tossing walnut husks at each other or making races of shelling peas.

As the dour-looking Gate crew, the afternoon Watchers, and the few monks who cared to eat outside the library made their way in from the now-spattering rain, Winthrop laid the table with the pie, a dish of turnips, carrots and parsnips roasted in goose fat, and the braided loaves just taken from the oven and accompanied with stone jars of butter and last year's preserved gooseberries. He built up the fire against the cold, eventually procuring a cask of firewine at one of the Knights of the Shield's urging which he distributed freely about the common room. Spirits rose with the production of the libations, voices growing louder and merrier, and it was easy to drain one glass to the fortress their home, another to the great scholars, then yet another to all of those assembled there as the storm crashed waves against the cliffs below loud enough to hear over lulls in the conversation but no more threat than anything else outside those walls.

He didn’t remember the exact point at which he had made it back to his room off the kitchen. Still less what had woken him until he suddenly couldn’t breathe. Thrashing was no avail—his arms were flabby and useless as dead slugs, eyes covered by whatever it was that was cutting off his air. “Over the walls?” a voice breathed, the S drawn out like a snake might speak Common.

“No, you fool, that’s across the grounds entire. Take it to the midden with the others.” The voice was soft, feminine, and completely impossible, unless… unless…

Broad, soft fingers touched his arm, their pressure fading as the darkness around him became the grey nothingness of oblivion. “Die happy, human. My gift to you,” he heard in Phyldia’s sweet voice before he heard nothing more at all.


	4. III: Reevor

Everything seemed off lately and Reevor didn’t like the look of it. Of course the monks of Candlekeep were all wool-headed scholars first and monks second, without any of the discipline of the more religious or martial orders. Discipline usually dropped like a stone in favor of the newest interpretation of some bit of Netherese parchment or the latest tome gifted by a foreign scholar looking to consult the stacks themselves. Still the place had its own order, a way things were done—a kind of a rhythm to each day's meandering about seeking the newest bit of learning for Lord Oghma. These days it was like no one had the slightest idea what they were doing anymore, or what any of their fellows were doing either. Monks who Reevor had known to be friends for decades quarreled like youngest sons, those with translations or experiments they would sooner have lost an eye than pause in now spent their time wandering the grounds aimlessly, or looking over different books entirely, or bothering the priests at the temple who themselves forgot to ring the bells and scrub the steps every day.

It was all that crew from Baldur’s Gate, Reevor had decided. He might not have been a brilliant mage like the rest, but he had two eyes and two ears which had long since gotten used to the light and noise of the surface and it was plain as the sun above them that the oddness had started when they’d come just after Gorion’s whelp had left. He hadn’t liked that slimy bastard Rieltar from the moment he’d stepped out of the carriage, looking at Reevor’s home and Reevor’s watchmen like they were some filth on the street of his precious Gate. And that boy, the only one who ought to have been there in the first place—something about those eyes, the way he sized up everything around him like he saw its price but not its value, gave Reevor the creeps like driders and deep dragons never had. Maybe they weren’t up to anything (and maybe seagulls might fly out of his arse) but they and their armsmen and their whispering in the library were throwing everything off in any case.

That useless old lump Winthrop hadn’t been any help— _don’t be silly, my friend, they’re just too citified to know any better. Have a drink._ Reevor had taken the drink, retreating to one corner to watch the group of the Gate boy’s armsmen for the past hour from Firebeard’s usual spot. He’d asked the old egghead to look into what they might be up to, and Firebeard had agreed, but shaken his head and apologized for how long it would almost certainly take with his other duties and travel to the Gate or Athkatla difficult as it was with the bandits along the way.

Reevor shook his head. Had he dozed off? It was quieter than it had been, but the Knights of the Shield and Watchers playing cards were still playing cards. His head ached like he’d drunk five ales, but his tankard was hardly touched. Blinking, he reached for his axes, mostly to reassure himself that they were still there. His hand brushed someone else’s—one that, for a moment, looked strange and shadow-darkened before turning the human-ordinary light brown it had been. Dizzily, Reevor launched himself to his feet, face to face with the Anchev guard who smiled blandly. “Forgive me,” he said. “It slipped from your belt.”

Teeth still bared, Reevor held his axe as steadily as his throbbing head and muscles would allow. “You,” he snarled. “It’s all you who have started whatever this is, and you’ll all pay, you bastards.”

“Come, my friend!” From behind the bar, Winthrop stepped toward him, head shaking with bemused amusement. “These men aren’t our enemies, no more than any other visitors! Put those down!”

The room should not have been spinning like this. “By the Nine Hells, something’s wrong and you’re too blind to see! They’ve done something—“

He’d turned his head toward the Watchers sitting at the table before from the corner of his eye he saw the blur of motion. Raising his axes, he turned to block—slow, too slow—as the bald bastard who’d never raised any weapon but a meat cleaver in his life pitched toward him across the unsteady floor. A block, a parry, a swing, and the thing that was not Winthrop hissed, its arm shooting toward him fast, too fast, to bury the dagger Reevor only now saw in his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.


	5. IV: Hull

The first bell should have rung by now, Hull was sure of it. Shifts this boring turned the minutes into hours, no doubt, but the moon had already set and this time yesterday they’d rung it before it had reached the top of the library spire. The priest, whoever it was, must have fallen asleep again. Which meant the bastard was keeping Hull from _his_ bed, which meant there was no chance of a pint before he turned in, especially if Winthrop was already asleep. All the other Watchers had been at the inn regular as the garden sundial lately, which meant that for the past three nights Hull’d had too much on his plate securing everywhere _they_ should have been to keep Gatewarden off all their backs to do anything but collapse onto his bed once his shift was over.

Mentally, he rolled his eyes. _This must be what getting old feels like. Being tired and being responsible for everything. Next thing you know I’ll be shuffling around like the monks and glaring at those iron bandits over the walls instead of doing anything about them. If they were to make a try for anything here, anyway._

The storehouse windows were dark, but as he stepped past a movement inside caught his eye. A cat, most likely, but if it were a fellow watcher… well. Depending on who it was he could always join them in their late-night revels or glare at them until they slunk away. His mood was low enough that either seemed good. He pushed open the door in time to see a flash of movement behind a stack of crates. For a moment he thought of Gorion’s brats sneaking in to steal—but no, that was ridiculous. Ridiculous, but sadder than he might have thought. Gods knew it had gotten quieter without those two around.

“All right, who—“ Hull rounded the crates and the words died in his throat at the sight. For a moment, he didn’t know what he was seeing—a mass of green fabric tangled around flesh that was pink-white, then dark, then a strange grayish that seemed all and no colors like a slick of oil over water. In a last, desperate moment he saw his own face reflected back at him like a living mirror before the creature— _mirrorskin, doppelganger—_ launched itself toward him with a hiss.

Hull’s sword was in his hand in an instant. The creature, trapped between him and the wall, shrank from his blade, ducking under his first swing and reaching toward him with its spindly-wiry arms. The dagger-long nails at the end swished by inches from Hull's left sleeve but he stepped back nimbly onto one leg, bringing his sword around in an attempt to sever the thing's head from its shoulders. It ducked beneath the blade, but slightly too slowly to avoid the blow that tore away a palm-sized chunk of its scalp. Blinded by its own blood, the creature faltered in its approach, leaving Hull to bring down the sword cleanly across the back of its neck where spine met skull. Paralyzed, then slain, it collapsed with a gurgle, strange, silvery blood pooling at Hull’s feet as he wiped his blade on his tabard with a grimace.

The door behind him banged open and Hull whirled around, sword high, only to relax a bit at the sight of the figure in the doorway. “Thank the gods,” he panted. “Quick, go wake the greybeards while I sound the alarm! There’s a gods-damned doppel—“

Hull barely had time to raise his sword before Reevor went for the kill.


	6. V: Feldane

Feldane couldn’t remember the last time he had slept soundly. Something was very, very wrong, and his only defense was to keep his wits about him. Ulraunt had been no help, simply shaking his head and reprimanding him for his paranoia. Tethoril’s reticence had been far more painful—initially he had refused to see Feldane privately, but only to meet on the south walls where each word they exchanged was met by a prolonged silence from Tethoril, as if he weighed every word that Feldane spoke against some metric Feldane could only guess at. The Marpenoth wind had bitten like an animal as he assured Feldane that he was doing everything he could to understand why certain monks had begun acting so strangely, he was trying everything in his power to see if anything was magically amiss, that he had sent word to the Grand Patriarch in Procampur, but there was little enough he could do in the absence of proof. A breaking of illusion, an admission of collaboration with… what? Feldane had left, frustrated and no more reassured than he had been an hour before, Tethoril's last words ringing in his ears: _Be on thy guard. And lock thy door well._

He had locked his door, aye, and warded it with every charm that would not have caused an explosion of wild magic combined with the others, but every night still saw him regularly jolting out of dreams only a few minutes in length and too evocative of his surroundings to provide any rest. His studies had long since lapsed—whatever practical usages of cantrips had once seemed so important no longer captivated his dizzy mind, focused only on what was wrong with the place he had called home for the majority of his life.

Glowering clouds blanketed the sky as he stepped through the autumn-dulled gardens toward the library, wondering exactly which meeting room Ulraunt had wished for him to prepare, when a movement through the southernmost arch caught his eye. It could not have been—but it was, their faces not those of the stripling and maiden who had left in Myrtul but of those who had seen the sights of the Realms and gained more knowledge than Feldane or any of his fellows could ever have hoped to impart by rote. “Gwydion!” he called, stumbling over his own robes like a novice as he approached. “Imoen!”

A flurry of greetings, embraces, and introductions followed; the names of the Rashemai giant and his hathran companion immediately flying from his head along with that of the slight, heavily-cloaked figure behind them. As Imoen was about to embark on some sort of story about a snow-bound island full of ankhegs, Feldane finally held up a hand. “I wish I could chat more about old times,” he finished, pulling his hood up about his face once more, “but I must prepare the meeting room for our… guests.”

“Are these people not to be trusted?” The familiar line of wariness appeared between Gwydion’s deep brown eyes, his dark brows lowering as if he already knew the answer.

“It is not for me to say, but I would keep an eye on your purse strings while you are here.” Feldane relayed his suspicions of the guests and their strange company, Gwydion nodding along as though unsurprised—the way he articulated the word “dealings” regarding the Iron Throne only underscored Feldane’s assumptions.

“I don’t suppose you know which rooms they will be using?” he finally asked, eyes darting around the ground in a mirror of Imoen’s as if they both expected to see Iron Throne and knights alike descending upon them at the words.

“I have said too much already. I certainly don’t mean to sound like a gossip.” Was that Hull lingering a bit too long near the fountain, listening in on their conversation? Had he acted oddly these past months? Feldane didn’t know. Gods, but he was tired. “I should go. Please, we should speak some other time before you go.”

Gwydion seemed about to say more, but Feldane was already hurrying away toward the library, focused on his duty once more. (A blur of chain-silver and the white of a Candlekeep tabard reflected itself in the fountain's water.) Now that Gwydion, selfless, kind Gwydion, had returned then things would be put right, he was sure of it. (Footsteps behind him, slow but steady, keeping the gap between them close.) Things were already more ordinary now that he was here—he would help Tethoril and Feldane and those remaining who had not been swayed by the Iron Throne and their minions to root out this strangeness and work as they might once again. (He knew Hull was behind him, and clutched his dagger, readying a spell contingency under his breath, preparing himself for the blow as soon as they were both out of sight.) Gwydion was Gorion’s son, his protege, his everything—this had to be what he had been prepared for. It had to be.


	7. VI: Tethoril

The death of Lord Rieltar had been the spark that ignited the dry forest floor. Even as Tethoril hurried toward the barracks lockup under the auspices of the strongest invisibility and protection spells in his power, laden with every weapon and offensive spell scroll he had ever hoarded, shouts rang and magical energy flashed from the highest library windows. About the grounds lay humans and doppengangers alike, Knights of the Shield side by side with the Watchers who had overseen Candlekeep’s halls for decades of Tethoril’s life. But there was no time for mourning now—none, perhaps, in the span remaining to him. Only the last thing he could do—he who had so failed the monks lying dead around him.

Gwydion looked up sharply as Tethoril entered, his conversation with Imoen and the Drow woman he had brought with him abruptly truncated as Tethoril shed his remaining illusions. “Tethoril?” Imoen finally spoke, voice unsteadier than he had ever heard it. “Please tell me that’s really you?”

“I swear to thee by Oghma and every other god who has ever walked the Realms that I am Tethoril of Candlekeep and no doppelganger,” Tethoril said, all too aware of the shake in his own voice. “Hello, young one. I am sorry to see thee in such terrible circumstances. I know thee well enough to see thou hast been falsely accused. Tomorrow, Ulraunt will most likely sentence thee—“

“Save your words unless you have come to our aid, dotard,” the Drow snapped.

Tethoril reached up a hand as Gwydion turned toward her with indignant anger on his face. “I can teleport you to the secret room that leads to the catacombs,” he said, glancing warily toward the door as a shout came from outside, “but from there you are on your own. You must be careful within the catacombs, as there are many guardians and traps, and, perhaps, whoever planned these murders.”

“Tethoril…” A blow against the door sounded, and Gwydion reached through the bars to clasp Tethoril’s crabbed hands in his young, strong ones. “Teleport us now, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. And… thank you. For everything.”

Tethoril barely heard the words of power he spoke, saw only a tear-blurred motion as the planes opened to draw away the two once-children he had striven to shape into the wise, brave young man and woman they had become. The door slammed open behind him as the last of the thaumaturgical residue settled, as he turned to face the new presence in the barracks. The youth, Koveras, Sarevok, stood hard-faced at the front of a crowd of faces—some of them in familiar guise, some abandoning the pretense to stand grey and bulbous-eyed and leering beside the few Knights of the Shield not felled by his fellow monks.

“A brave gesture, old man, but of no avail.” With a sneer, the youth stepped forward, drawing a sword near Tethoril’s own height that glowed with unwholesome, necromantic colors. The expression on his face was not one of determination, but of true satisfaction. The lives cut short, the horror and terrible grief brought down upon the heads of monk and Watcher and priest alike, as well as, now, the two who had been once again forced to flee from its sheltering walls—he reveled in it, sure as the creatures that surrounded him had reveled in their corruption of the peace and order of Candlekeep. “Our allies have filled every part of this fortress, particularly those precious catacombs you’ve sent them to. They will soon be as dead as the rest of you.”

Whispering the last of his protections into place, producing the wand of fire that he had hoped to never use, Tethoril formed one last, desperate prayer to the Lord of Knowledge— _protect your acolyte, I have done all I may, he will soon be the last hope of your servants in this place, grant a foolish old mortal’s dying wish—_ and loosed the blast.


	8. Epilogue

_On the third tenday, Gwydion had left Minsc shouldering the charred timbers of the barracks into a scrap pile and Jaheira and Cernd debating how best to trim back the vines encroaching on the masonry in the absence of the party of masons the church had assured them was en route from Baldur’s Gate. He made his way to his rooms, retrieving his armor, weapons, and holy symbol from the bag of holding lying on his bed._

_"Whatcha doing?" Gwydion jumped as if caught in wrongdoing, turning to where Imoen stood in the door, a kerchief tied over her hair and a pile of loose, mouse-chewed vellum scrolls under her arm._

_"I thought I would go down to the catacombs," Gwydion replied casually._

_"What, by yourself?"_

_"No, I was going to... yes, all right, by myself. You know I can handle myself better than I ever could when we were here last. We all can. It's perfectly fine. I just wanted to look around."_

“ _I wouldn’t care if you’d fought five dragons by yourself by now.” Imoen stared at him, somewhere between incredulous and indignant. “It’s still dangerous for just you down there! What if some of the doppelgangers are still there? What if we missed a basilisk or something? There’s got to be more stuff than just undead stuff, who… whoever it is.”_

_Gwydion bit his lip at the hitch in her voice. “I’m just saying, this is all going to be clerical business. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”_

“ _Well, I don’t want to. But… y’know, I need to.”_

“ _Fair enough. Come on, you can carry some things for me. I’m going out the front gate and around.”_

_The natural caverns were as quiet as the tomb they had become, the only living creatures a handful of bats and two palm-sized spiders that scuttled away into rock fissures too quickly for Gwydion to determine whether they would pose a threat later in life. Nothing remained of the party of Sarevok’s allies they had fought near the end of the tunnels, but as they pressed further more humanoid corpses lay on the rough-hewn stone floors, leathery and dessicated as though nothing had deigned to partake of doppelganger flesh, even the worms. As the water-smoothed limestone gave way to the sculpted pillars Gwydion remembered from his nightmares, their contours made strange and wavering by Imoen’s lantern, his pulse was hammering as if he had fought an army of the undead to reach the deserted rooms before them._

“ _Last chance to turn back,” he finally said, voice echoing low through the cavernous room._

“ _They were my family too, Gwydion.” Imoen’s voice was equally small, sounding on the edge of tears, but she stepped through the doorway ahead of him. Bracing himself, he followed her._

_The scent of decay had never quite left the room, but the jumble of bones (some jagged in ways Gwydion feared to examine too closely) was no longer the midden that still appeared to him in the nightmares where he wasn’t locked in Irenicus’s cage or tearing his friends limb from limb in the form of the Slayer. Pushing those thoughts away, he closed his eyes, opening himself to the underlying harmonies of the fortress—the greatest shrine to the Lord of Knowledge, the bastion of learning where he had grown within Oghma’s care, where he had received his clerical training in the service of the god who had allowed—_

_He didn’t notice when the tears began to fall, but as his first sob sounded through the room he knew that he was not finished with his tears for those he had loved—perhaps would never be finished with them. He felt Imoen’s arms around his shoulders as he wept for those who had taught him, cared for him, loved him, their bones jumbled together like quarry stones, a tangle of refuse deemed too unimportant by those who had thrown them there like offal to bury or even separate from each other, their visages assumed by the creatures who had perverted the life he had left behind into this. On his bared arms he felt her tears begin to fall as well, and together they held each other, clinging to the last vestige of what they had once known until finally the sobs once again resided, the void in his heart left by death and loss and his own removed essence filled by the tears for the time being._

_“_ _Sorry, Im,” he finally managed to say._

“ _You should be. I’ve fought off three sword spiders already.” Belying her own mockery, Imoen squeezed his shoulder before producing a flask of water and a handkerchief. Gwydion gratefully accepted both. “If you need to come back later we can. Maybe get Jaheira to help out. Or Viconia, even. Oghma's okay with Shar, right?”_

“ _I just wanted to know.” Gwydion stared at the wall, trying not to guess whose bones were whose, what tatters of clothing each skeleton wore. “To see if I laid their souls properly when we were escaping. If one of them were still down here, still angry, angry at me...”_

“ _They wouldn’t be angry at you. That’s not how ghosts work.”_

“ _It is sometimes.”_

“ _That’s not how_ these _ghosts would work. I’m an archmage now, remember? I should know.” Imoen blew her nose loudly. “They wouldn't. They just wouldn't. They loved you and they'd know you did the best you could when we were down here last time, and that’s gotta count for something. Look, do you need a hand? I can hold the incense thingy if you want.”_

“ _Censer.” Gwydion raised himself to his feet. “It’s no use anyway, doing it with everyone... scattered around like this. They’ll need to be buried properly. I just hate to think of gathering up the bones… maybe we could gather them all into some kind of caern down here...”_

“ _Whoa. Gwydion. It’s...” Imoen trailed off before she could get out “okay.” “It is what it is. I know you're Big Brother Who Knows Everything and stuff but right now you don't have to... We’ll figure something out. Just… make sure no one’s going to be rattling chains and moaning all over the place—not that anyone is—and we can figure something out from there. Okay?”_

“ _Yes. You’re right. Can we just… sit for a minute?”_

“ _Yeah. Let’s sit.”_


End file.
